Too Much Talk About The Muse

Eamonn Lynskey

Too much talk about ‘the Muse' when talking
poetry and difficulties thereof.
Too much thinking that, besides the poets,
anyone anywhere really gives a toss.

The time has come, therefore, to see off Milton .
And his ‘Sisters of the Sacred Well'.
Forget the classic ‘invocations', tell
the truth: a poem is like an aching tooth,

and nothing more. A vague uneasiness
that stabs the root of memory, sets up
a constant phrase that throbs long into night
when sleep fails and the driving rain

interrogates the window and it seems
like day will never break again. And were it
just a tooth, it could be pulled. But root
of poetry? How? – And so next morning down

to Milton 's surgery, reclining chair.
‘I knew you would be back' he says. His muse
(in white, beside him) hands him torch and probe.
‘I've tried out various forms,' I stammer. ‘Thought

if I broke free from scansion, stanza, verse –
you know, all that old-hat Olympus style…'
The muse and Milton smile indulgently.
‘They all say that,' he laughs. ‘Now, open wide…'

In The Darkening Watery Mirror

Livia Viitol
( Translated by Ilmar Lehtpere)

In the darkening watery mirror
some bird-eyed woman
is raking up the last splashes of light,
the echo of the corncrake's cry
caught in her breast.
Raking the soul,
raking the flesh,
raking herself,
until the rain,
the last fervent secret lover
of summer
kisses the cry
to death.

At Oscar Wilde ' s Grave

Dave Lordan

Who stole the angel ' s glory?
Still, you ' ve got the rarest grave in Montparnasse,
Granite teeming with lipstick kisses,
A shoal of petals in a mountain lake,
A cloud burst of tropical fish.
And taped to a withering rose there's a note:
Thank you for teaching me that I was good.

I kiss the teacher too,
For you are more than welcome
To the imprint of my gaping mouth,
If I can stay awhile in reverence
To watch my wet gift fading,
November sun licking my lips.